


by omission

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Everyone is Entitled to Their Feelings, M/M, POV Alternating, The Brewers are Good Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: "David, they know, right?""Of course they know. I wouldn't have asked them to come here if I didn't think they knew we were in a relationship... They call the store all the time! I mean, what do they think I'm just his business partner?!"Or, Marcy calls the store months before Patrick's birthday. David makes assumptions.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 118
Kudos: 646





	by omission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [olivebranchesandredwine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivebranchesandredwine/gifts).



> Here's to birthdays and buckling knees.

Thursdays were supposed to be boring. 

Thursdays were the days you skipped over to get to Friday and, therefore, the weekend. They were for vendor pickups and bank drop-offs and trolling Stevie via text because the trickle of customers was slower than on other days. They were for long lunches with soggy french fries and rearranging the new cucumber water face tonic display for the ninth - no, the eleventh time. They were for locking the store when Roland crosses the street and hiding behind the counter with a ‘Back in 5’ sign hastily scribbled and taped to the door because they’re little shits. They were for playing games of ‘I Spy’ and ‘Never Have I Ever’ (sans alcohol) while counting inventory and butchering the spotify playlist because neither of them could agree on Bob Dylan. 

It was Thursday. 

Thursdays were supposed to be boring. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

xxxxxx

It’s not fair that, after being abducted by Stevie under the guise of cherry blossom glory, he now has to watch the store by himself to make up for his time off. It’s like a double punishment, in fact, and the current sentence is definitely lacking in Mariah karaoke goodness. _Triple_ punishment, if you count the two-day hangover courtesy of polar bear shots combined with Tammy’s killer harmony. 

Patrick is currently renegotiating a vendor contract renewal with Heather Warner because David doubted she’d want to see him, so it’s not like Patrick’s _not_ working. Still. David is alone and it’s a Thursday and he’s _bored_. Dinner in Elmdale for their monthiversary (which is a word he cannot _believe_ is in his vocabulary) will be the day’s only saving grace. 

The store phone rings and he jumps, because no one ever really calls the store. If they’re a local, they just walk in, and if they’re a Rose they text incessantly until either David answers or, more likely, they get Patrick to get David to answer. Occasionally, someone from one of the outer Elms will call to make sure something is in stock before making the drive, but those requests are few and far between. Schitt’s Creek always seems to be on the way to something better and, for most of their loyal customers, a stop at Rose Apothecary is just part of the route. 

He slides off the counter with a groan, all but stomping around to the other side so he can grab the cordless phone from its cradle beneath the cash. Patrick insisted on a landline, despite the fact that they're "outdated." For _reasons_.

“Rose Apothecary, how may I help you?” 

“Oh, David?” the voice asks, soft and sweet, already rounding out David’s edges and smoothing down his hackles. 

“Hi, Mrs. Brewer,” he warmly responds, because he’d know that voice anywhere. It’s certainly not the first time she’s called the store, and it probably won’t be the last. He’s not sure if the Brewers’ penchant for checking in is a familial trait or just a general parental thing. After all, he wouldn’t know. 

“Hi, dear, is Patrick around? I tried his cell but it went to voicemail.” 

“Oh he’s at one of our vendors,” he says, leaning his elbows on the counter. “So either he didn’t pick up because he’s still in the middle of the meeting, or he has no service.” He runs his finger over a scratch Stevie left in the wood when she threw David’s keys at his head and missed. 

“I see. Well, will you tell him I called when he returns? Sometimes he’s difficult to track down, that boy,” she says with a soft (and slightly strained) laugh. Which seems odd because every story David has heard Patrick tell has led him to believe that the Brewers are all… close. 

“I will. We’re going out to dinner tonight, so I’ll see if he has time to call before we leave.” 

“Oh that’s lovely,” she says and he can’t help the smile that pulls at his cheeks, that works the muscles all-too-used to frowning. 

“It’s our anniversary.” 

“Oh? I thought the store opened in May.” 

“No, it’s _our_ anniversary - although, I mean I guess it’s not our _official_ anniversary,” he says with a flick of his hand, as if batting away a technicality, “but your son insists on celebrating by the month, which I’ve told him is bad luck, but he won’t be deterred.” He gives a little chuckle, thinking to himself _stubborn little button_ \- 

But there’s a silence that stretches. Long enough to make him believe he’s lost the call. 

“Hello? Mrs. Brewer?” he asks, pulling the phone away briefly to check that it’s still connected.

“Yes, sorry, David,” she whispers, “Um…” 

This is now the fifth time he’s spoken to her on the phone. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard ‘um’ leave her lips before now. 

“So, when you say ‘anniversary,’ you mean the anniversary of…” 

“When we started dating,” he says, a _millisecond_ before the ground drops out beneath his feet. “Oh my God.” 

“Oh,” she breathes. 

“Oh my God.” His sternum is starting to crack under the brute force of his heart and his lungs beg for breath his body isn’t allowing him to have. He can’t stop saying _oh my god_ and he’s honestly not sure if it’s out loud or in his head; his head which is buzzing in the aftermath of the fucking _bomb_ he just dropped on poor Marcy Brewer all without knowing the detonator was in his boyfriend’s fucking hand. “I’m so sorry, I’m so - I’m so sorry.” 

“No, David - ”

“I have to go, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Brewer,” he rambles, clipping his hip on the counter as he stumbles to the door and turns the lock three hours too early. 

“David, sweetheart - ”

“Bye,” he manages, ending the call and letting the phone slip from numb fingers as he presses his forehead against the cool glass, ragged breaths fogging the door from clear to grey. 

They didn’t know. They didn’t know he and Patrick were together. They didn’t know Patrick was _gay_. 

_Oh God, Patrick._

He drops to the ground without a care for his designer jeans and scrabbles for his cell, hiccuping as he unlocks the screen featuring Patrick’s smiling face and wondering when exactly he started crying. He jabs his thumb on the top Favourite just listed as **Boyfriend ❤️** and hiccups again because the title doesn’t quite hold the same weight that it did a minute ago. 

_Stop it._

The phone rings and rings some more, and David groans as he harshly runs a hand through his hair, not caring how disheveled it makes him look. His knees dig into the hardwood floor and he vaguely remembers to reach up with a trembling hand to flip the sign to CLOSED.

He thinks he might be sick. 

If Patrick didn’t answer for his mom, he’s not going to answer for David. Unless he’s concerned that both of them have called, especially David since he knows where Patrick is and what he’s doing. Why would David call if it wasn’t something important, right? 

Just when he thinks the voicemail is going to kick in, the call connects, a rustling sound followed by a muffled curse and then Patrick’s voice, familiar and comforting and slightly concerned:

“David? You all right?” 

He wouldn’t have asked that if he had already spoken to his mother. He would know definitively that there’s no way on this godforsaken earth that David is all right. 

“Um, where are you?” he asks, mentally thanking the undisclosed People’s Choice Award-winner for those acting workshops his mother made him take so long ago.

“I just left Heather’s, so about thirty minutes away. Is everything okay?” 

Of course he can fucking tell. David squeezes his eyes shut and nods, not realizing or not caring that Patrick can’t see him. 

“Uh huh,” he finally manages. “Can you just - not answer the phone until you get here?” 

“O-kay, you’re worrying me a little,” Patrick murmurs, quiet fondness slowly leeching from his tone.

“Just. Please don’t drive and use your phone.” It’s a habit they’re both guilty of, given Schitt’s Creek’s short roads and slow speed limits, and David leans into the old argument, hoping that Patrick attributes the tremble in his voice to concern for his safety and not anything more.... cataclysmic. Or life-changing. 

Relationship-destroying.

“Okay, David,” he murmurs. 

David knows he knows something’s wrong. Never could get anything past him, except maybe a celebrity reference. “I’ll see you when you get here.” 

“See you,” Patrick replies, and David gathers every fond look, every teasing retort, every Tina Turner chord, every _goodnight_ whispered beneath a shared blanket, and every ounce of courage Patrick has ever given him close. 

“Love you.” 

He hangs up before giving Patrick a chance to reply. 

xxxxxx

Patrick tucks the folder with Heather Warner’s signed contract under his arm to give her a wave before opening the car door and tossing it on the passenger side seat. It was a friendly and productive meeting, but he won’t be telling David how many goat cheese puffs she shared with him considering she didn’t provide any to bring home. 

He tugs his phone out of his back pocket and tosses it in the cup-holder before putting the key in the ignition and starting the car. It’s only when he’s halfway down the dirt road that he remembers he put it on airplane mode for the meeting. Blindly reaching for it, he swipes it off, startling when it immediately begins ringing and beeping in his hand. 

“Jesus Christ.” There’s a voicemail from his mom and a couple of texts from David. He’s about to click on the voicemail when the phone lights up, David’s name flashing across the screen. He fumbles as he tries to answer while still keeping the car on the road, cursing as the device tumbles into the passenger side footwell. He hits the brakes to lean down and reach for it, clumsily tapping **Accept** before it’s too late. 

“David? You all right?” he blurts when he finally gets the phone to his ear. He can David breathing across the line. 

“Um, where are you?” That wasn’t a _yes_ or a _no_ which really isn’t calming the general sense of unease that’s settled in Patrick’s stomach. 

“I just left Heather’s, so about thirty minutes away.” He presses slightly harder on the gas. “Is everything okay?” 

“Uh huh,” is the reply that comes after a moment that lingers a little too long. “Can you just - not answer the phone until you get here?” 

_What?_

“O-kay, you’re worrying me a little.” A lot. David is worrying him a lot. 

“Just. Please don’t drive and use your phone.” 

He doesn’t point out that _David_ is the one who called _him_ , but that’s at least a return to familiar territory. They’ve certainly yelled at each other about it more than once. He thinks of the missed call from his mother and firmly doesn’t let his overactive imagination spiral. 

“Okay, David,” he murmurs, free hand tightening on the leather of the wheel. 

“I’ll see you when you get here.” 

“See you,” he replies carefully, like this ride, this next thirty minutes of his life, is the calm before some storm he can’t even see on the radar. 

“Love you,” David says, but the beep of the line going dead in his ear cuts off his response, giving him all the confirmation he needs. 

The phone drops to his lap and he takes a slow, steady breath. Then another. And another. The greenery on either side of the car whips by in an unbroken blur, and he wills his brain to think rationally. David probably broke something at the store and he’s worried about Patrick’s reaction. Or he sampled the new salsa from Maya down the road, despite the fact that it has mangoes in it, and he’s closed the store early because he now has to pass out in the back room after downing more than the recommended dosage of Benadryl. 

_Yes_ , Patrick thinks. That seems like a David thing to do. After all, food is always the priority, which is why he won’t be learning about the goat cheese puffs. 

Still. 

Something is whispering against the shell of his ear, disturbing the hairs at the nape of his neck, and tapping an insistent beat on his shoulder. 

He remembers the voicemail from his mom and, despite what David asked, he can’t help but hit play. He just needs to release this one worry from the tether it has around his heart. He puts it on speaker, leaving the phone in his lap, and her melodic voice fills the car’s cramped, suffocating quarters. 

“Hello, sweet boy. Just… checking in. We hadn’t heard from you in a while... I saw the store’s new Facebook post. Looks like the wine and cheese pairing event was a success… Anyway, just - give us a call when you can.” It’s the tone she uses when she’s trying to seem encouraging but not needy. She’s been using it on him since his first day of kindergarten. “I know you’re busy, but we’d, well, we’d love to hear from you. Love you, sweetheart.” 

“Love you, too,” he murmurs as he saves the message, along with the rest she and his dad have left him over the past year. 

Okay, well, that wasn’t too bad. He’d had worst case scenarios running through his head that involved hospitals and next-of-kin calls. 

He turns on the radio for company and the remaining twenty minutes of the drive go by quickly, thanks to David’s Spotify playlist and the fact that Patrick’s breaking every speed limit from Heather’s farm to Rose Apothecary. 

He’s just pulling up outside and bracing himself for whatever lies ahead when he notices it. The CLOSED sign hanging on the inside of the glass door. 

It’s 2:37 in the afternoon. 

“What the…” He hurries out of the car, grabbing his phone but leaving the contract as he jogs the few feet from the curb to the store, getting a hand on the knob but losing his momentum when it doesn’t budge beneath his grip. Cupping his hand against the glare of the sun, he looks inside but doesn’t see David. He’s about to knock when his phone lights up in his hand once more: 

**Mom**

Twice in one day. 

That’s… that’s not good. 

His finger trembles as it hovers over the screen, wondering what a simple swipe and a brief _hello_ will bring. But before he can ponder the possibilities, the door swings abruptly back, nearly toppling him onto the pavement, and David stands there looking absolutely _wrecked_ \- hair disheveled, eyes swollen, and hand out, reaching for something. 

Patrick moves to reach back, but David bypasses him and points to the phone in his hand. 

“Please don’t answer that.”

xxxxxx

**_Can you be home tonight? I think I’m going to need you later._ **

He stares at the text he sent to Stevie roughly ten minutes ago, ignoring her reply which consisted of a succinct but no less heartfelt:

**[Stevie]**   
**What the fuck.**

He briefly debates giving her more details, but he honestly has no idea how this is going to go. Hell, he doesn’t even know how _he’s_ feeling _._ Forget Patrick. He’s terrified and pissed and so, so goddamn hurt that all he can do is cry tears of anger and pain onto the lock screen that features a black and white photo of Patrick in bed with his guitar on his lap, serenading David with a slowed-down cover of P!nk’s “Fuckin' Perfect.” And it really was. 

Eyeing the eucalyptus serum, he hears the aborted attempt to open the door first, blowing out a relieved breath that Patrick is here, before inhaling sharply at what he might already know if he didn’t stay true to his word and leave his phone alone. Breezing through the curtain and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he lets out a groan that gets cut short when Patrick’s ringtone blares through the glass. 

_Oh God._

David Rose is not a runner, but he puts Usain Bolt to shame as he flies to the door, pulls it open, and, like Robert fucking Frost, looks at his two roads diverged before him. With an inhale and a prayer to a deity he doesn’t believe in, he picks one.

“Please don’t answer that.” 

Patrick jumps, almost falling backwards, before using his impressive core strength to keep himself upright. He looks - worried. Worried, but not angry. Not upset. Not like David hasn’t just taken a sledge hammer to his prized Rodin. 

His phone continues to ring, Tina Turner mocking David for what’s about to happen. 

_“Tear us apart, baby, I would rather be dead…”_

“David, what’s going on?” The grip he has on the device is tight, David can tell. His knuckles are going white. 

But now that David’s here, that he’s picked his road, he’s forgotten how to walk. 

“Um, come inside.” He steps back and turns, listening to Patrick follow suit and shut the door again. He wishes he’d lock it, too, because David doesn’t need anyone walking into this clusterfuck of an afternoon and the CLOSED sign has so rarely deterred the locals. 

“David, I did what you asked,” Patrick begins, voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t answer my phone, I didn’t check my texts. Now can you please tell me what the hell is going on? Because I’m honestly a little freaked out.” 

_You should be,_ is what comes unbidden to his mind. 

He swallows hard against the urge to cry again, clearing his throat and turning to look Patrick dead in the eye. He needs to see him, every inch of him, for this: 

“Your mom called the store.” 

Something in Patrick’s expression tightens. _There it is._

“She said she tried your cell and didn’t get you so she thought she’d call here.” He swallows again and licks his lips. “Naturally, I answered.”

David’s heart chips a little further with every shade Patrick slowly pales. He doesn’t need to say it, but he’s going to anyway: 

“Patrick, I just accidentally outed you to your mother.” His voice breaks before he gets to the end of the sentence, and Patrick gasps, even though he probably knew it was coming. “I asked you not to answer your phone because I wanted you to hear it from me, and preferably not while you were driving. I wanted to do this face-to-face so I could see you when I asked you why the _fuck_ you didn’t tell me.” His breath hitches and his lower lip wobbles as the tears spill over onto his cheeks. There’s just no stopping them. He’s feeling so many things, but anger is winning out at the moment. Anger at being put in this position. At being forced to break poor Marcy Brewer’s heart. 

“David,” Patrick starts. His voice is nearly nonexistent. David isn’t sure he wants to hear it anyway. 

“She calls the store all the time, Patrick! Did you never once stop to think, ‘oh maybe I should give David a heads up that they don’t know he’s my boyfriend before he says something so preposterously _stupid_ and ruins everything because he’s David Rose! It’s bound to happen one of these days!” 

Patrick’s phone rings again before he can respond. The look on his face when he glances at the screen tells David all he needs to know about who it is.

He takes a moment to try and calm down as Patrick declines the call, but his body isn’t having it yet. He’s at the top of a rollercoaster about to drop and he just doesn’t care that his harness is broken.

“After Rachel, the one thing I asked was that you be honest with me. I’m not mad that you didn’t tell your parents, Patrick. You’re supposed to decide when and where that happens. I’m mad that you didn’t tell me they didn’t know. And now I’ve fucked it all up and all of this could have been avoided had you just _talked_ to me! We share a goddamn _bed,_ Patrick. Is it too much to ask that you share this with me too?” he asks, pressing a finger over Patrick’s heart. “Or did you just want this?” he finishes, gesturing to his own body. 

What he’s saying isn’t fair, he knows it’s not, but that’s never stopped him from pulling the pin before. 

Patrick’s jaw snaps shut with a click. “David, you know that’s not true,” he hoarsely whispers, voice breaking. “How could you - I would _never_ \- ”

“You’re supposed to decide, Patrick! _You_ are! This is something very personal, and - and it should be done on your terms. Not mine. Not your parents’. _Yours._ And now I’ve… _taken_ that away from you! And I didn’t have to, Patrick! If we had just been _honest_ with each other, we could have been a team.”

 _A team._ The cricket metaphor might have been a low blow, but he’s fighting dirty. He’s not sure why - he told himself he was done with that when he met Patrick - but he could recite his many therapists’ notes verbatim if the matter was really pressed. As it is, he wants to live in his anger, in his righteous indignation, just for a little while longer. It’s comforting, like an old friend who indulges your worst habits. If he’s going to do that, though, he needs to stop noticing that Patrick’s cheeks are just as wet as his. 

“David.” He shuffles forward and reaches out a hand. A hand that’s shaken David apart and laid his most vulnerable bits completely bare. Before carefully putting him back together, piece by piece, a tender kiss to each crack and scar to help them mend once more. His name seems to be all Patrick can manage to say, a plea upon his lips. 

And David is _thisclose_ to succumbing - 

\- before Patrick’s phone rings once more. He listens as Tina Turner swiftly and thoroughly cleaves what’s left of his heart in two. 

“You should talk to your mother.” 

“No, not until we fix this,” Patrick says with all the naive hope and optimism of a goddamn Disney prince. 

“Who says it’s fixable?” is his reply. It’s cruel and unnecessary. Befitting a proper villain. Because that’s what he is in this story, right? The villain? 

He shakes his head and heads for the door, but Patrick’s hand is firm and unyielding on his arm as he passes. 

“David, I love you!” 

“No,” he says, fortifying his defenses with every brutal moment he’s ever borne witness to. “You don’t do this to someone you love.” 

Patrick lets go and steps back, as if David had physically slapped him. He wishes he’d thought to look anywhere else but at him, because the expression on Patrick’s face will haunt him well into the night. 

“David, please don’t do this.” 

“Happy anniversary,” he spits, deciding to light the fuse on the way out the door. “The day is clearly cursed.” 

xxxxxx

_“Happy anniversary. The day is clearly cursed.”_

Patrick’s ears are ringing and he doesn’t even flinch as the door slams behind David, hard enough to crack the glass. The thought of having to go to Ronnie to fix it is the tipping point, the final block on a leaning tower that brings him to his knees. 

He’s breathing as if he’s just sprinted three miles, his panting harsh and loud in the silence left in David’s wake. He’s not really crying, tears are just streaming down his face and there’s no stopping them anytime soon as they _drip drip drip_ down onto the hardwood floor. 

His hands rest palm up on his thighs, fingers curled in, lax and useless. He doubts he’d even be able to grip a baseball in this state, but that doesn’t matter when the only thing he can still feel is the ghost of David’s sweater slipping through his grasp. 

Still. Somewhere, far underneath the panic and the pain, is relief. 

He kept saying _one day_ , one day he’d go home and tell his parents in person, because this was the kind of life-altering news you delivered face-to-face. But the store was busy and texts and calls kept coming and going and time kept passing. Eventually it just seemed like _too_ much time. 

He could spreadsheet every excuse he wanted to. It still wouldn’t change the fact that his mistake came in not trusting David to be with him on every step of that journey. Because it _was_ a lack of trust, now that he thinks about it. Now that he sees how badly he’s wounded David, sliced him through skin and bone and marrow, down to the very best parts of him, the parts he doesn’t let anyone see, because he didn’t trust himself enough to let anyone see him at his most vulnerable. 

_“And now I’ve… taken that away from you! And I didn’t have to, Patrick! If we had just been honest with each other, we could have been a team.”_

Patrick knows David was being generous in that moment. He was the only one not being honest. 

If anyone was going to be there to hold Patrick up when his legs gave out, it would have been David. 

His phone buzzes across the floor where he’d dropped it, but it’s not a call this time. And thank God. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle Tina Turner again. 

He leans over and unlocks the screen, forcing himself not to wince as pins and needles flare in his thighs.

**[Mom]**   
**Sweet boy, please pick up.**

He gusts out a breath, but he can’t deal with his parents right now. Even if his mother’s well-worn endearment for him hints at good things. 

He’s not entirely sure he’s deserving of them anyway. 

No, he knows he isn’t. 

The phone buzzes again and he wants to shrink away from his parents’ attempts to reach out, from the technical embodiment of their love for him, but then he catches sight of whose name is actually on the screen. 

**[Stevie]**   
**What the fuck is going on?**

He hastily reaches for the phone and hits her name, bringing it to his ear as he tries to push himself to unsteady feet. 

“Patrick, what did you do?” she asks in lieu of a greeting and he sags against the table. 

“Is he there?”

“He’s on his way. What did you do?” she repeats. 

“I - My parents didn’t know about us. They didn’t know about _me_. And - and David didn’t know they didn’t know and he let it slip on the phone to my mom.”

“Fuck, Patrick,” she breathes. 

“I know.” 

“Jesus Christ - ”

“I _know_!” 

“Do you? Do you really?” she snaps. “Then you must have known what that would do to him. How it would _eat_ him up to know he betrayed you like that. And you did it anyway.” 

“I know,” he whispers, guilt weighing down those simple two words. A penance he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop paying. 

“Well, at least I know what I’m dealing with,” she says wryly. 

Silence settles over the line and he closes his eyes, just listening to her breathe. 

“Are you okay?” she asks and, he’s gotta admit, he’s surprised. Stevie will always be David’s Best Friend. She was his first and she’ll be his always, but Patrick loves her, too. He likes to think that goes both ways, a little. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, rubbing at a new scratch on the counter. 

“Have you spoken to your parents?” 

“No. My mom called a couple of times, but… David was still here.” 

She hums. “Maybe give this battle a break. Go fight that one.” 

He knows she’s right. He owes so many people so many things: David, yes. David, everything. But his parents, the people that raised him, he owes them honesty most of all. 

“Oh hang on,” she starts, and Patrick hears a door opening and closing in the background, followed by a muffled greeting. 

“Is that him?” comes David’s voice, and there’s a brief scuffle before he says more clearly, “Hang up the phone, Stevie.” 

“Stevie, please don’t hang up the phone.” 

Her sigh is loud and harsh in his ear. “Sorry, Brewer. He’s getting me in the divorce.” 

_Divorce._

The word punches through him, bruising his organs and cracking his ribs.

“Hey,” she murmurs, low and muffled, like she’s cupping her hand over the receiver. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

“No it’s not,” he whispers, because how can it be? 

“Patrick. It will.” And then she ends the call. 

He stares at the phone for a moment before opening up his mother’s text and rereading those five simple words. 

**Sweet boy, please pick up.**

He swallows hard as his thumb hovers over her contact, but he groans and tosses the phone next to the cash, leaning his elbows on the counter and dropping his head into his hands. He fixates on a scratch in the wood, new since he last paid attention. It’s a slight mark, done by a pen or a nail or a key. Nothing that some wood polish won’t erase away. 

What he’s dealing with, though, goes decidedly deeper than that. 

_Enough._

He picks up his phone and taps his mom’s contact, putting the phone to his ear and ignoring the way his hands shake. He holds his breath until his vision goes blurry, listening as every passing ring brings him closer to a conversation he should have had months ago. 

“Patrick,” she says, her relief, her worry, her _love_ palpable. 

And that’s it, that’s what finally does him in. He slides down the side of the counter to the floor, sobs wracking his body as he buries his face in his knees. 

“Mom.”

“Oh my sweet boy,” he can hear her say over his weeping. 

She lets him cry it out and he does, releasing every pent up emotion he’s ever squirreled away in the last year. He cries until he has nothing left, until his chest feels hollowed out and his eyes are swollen but dry. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, tongue thick in his mouth. 

“No, nothing to be sorry for,” his dad says over the line, and he’d start crying again if he had the energy to do so.

“Patrick, sweetheart…” his mom begins, all warmth and open encouragement, “do you have something you’d like to tell us?” 

“Yeah.” He inhales raggedly and wipes his sleeve across his flushed face. Even now, knowing what the response will be, he feels like he’s about to step off a cliff and he doesn’t know if the drop is four feet or forty. “David is my boyfriend. We…” he pauses because this will hurt them. It hurts _him_ to say it. “We’ve been dating for almost a year.” 

His mom inhales sharply, and apparently he lied about having no more tears to shed. 

“David didn’t know?” 

“No,” he manages. “David didn’t know.” 

“Oh, Patrick,” his mother breathes, and he’ll always wonder how she manages to verbally hug him and compassionately chide him simultaneously. 

“Are you happy?” his dad asks, and he laughs, a strangled, wet thing. 

“I’ve never been happier in my life.” 

Or he had been. Up until about an hour ago. 

“And that’s all we’ve ever cared about, sweet boy.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and blows out a slow, somewhat steady breath, unbelievably grateful that fate gifted him with the two human beings on the other end of the line. If he had lost both David and his parents in one day, he’s not sure how he would have coped. 

_You haven’t lost David,_ his brain reminds, but his heart is less convinced. 

“How did it start?” his dad asks, and Patrick can’t help but smile. 

So he sits there in a store that he and David built together, and he tells them about a birthday and a miscommunication and a frame for a receipt that took him two hours to pick out. He fills in the gaps for the stories they were already told, adding back in the omitted kissing and hand-holding and obviously-flirty teasing. 

He rewrites his history, amending it properly, for a rapt audience of two that he could have had from the start. 

xxxxxx

David has the sinking suspicion that he’s been in this position before: head hanging over the edge of the bed, the room upside down, some substance coursing through his veins. Or maybe Stevie was the one in this position. Either way, it seems eerily familiar. 

At least there are face masks this time.

“I can’t believe you called him.” 

“Excuse you. _He_ called _me,_ ” she says from her spot on the floor, tipping her glass back and draining the red wine in it. 

“But you texted him first.”

“To figure out what was going on! You were being your usual vague self, all catastrophe and no detail.” She looks at him then, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m not taking sides, you know,” she says, reaching over and flicking his ear. 

“Ow!” He swats her away. “Aren’t you?”

She seems to consider that for a moment. “Well, _you’re_ here and Patrick isn’t. You tell me.”

She has a point and he pouts, rubbing the tender shell of his ear as he stares at a stain on her ceiling. He won’t point out that it’s the first time either of them has said his name all night.

“What did he say?” 

“I thought you didn’t want to know,” she replies and he huffs. 

The downside to not being right-side up is that he can’t drink without spilling. 

“David, he’s the human equivalent of a natural disaster,” she says quietly. “He’s a fucking wreck.”

Yeah, he’s going to need more wine for this. 

He pushes himself to seated and makes a grabby-hands gesture for the bottle in between her crossed legs. She snags his glass instead and tops it up with a steady hand.

“You’ll spill on my bedspread,” she explains and carefully hands him his glass back before wordlessly filling up her own. 

"It would be an improvement," he mutters as he adjusts the sheet mask where it slid down over his lips, pretty sure he was supposed to remove it ten minutes ago. Stevie looks like a ghost in hers, but then again, that’s nothing new. “This is just like Rachel."

Stevie releases a pointed sigh.

“What?” he snaps. 

“David, you specifically didn’t want to get into your pasts. So he didn’t. Now, was any of it handled well? No. You two are idiots. But you’re both to blame for that particular clusterfuck.” 

He scrunches his nose, knowing she’s right, but not wanting to admit it. He’d like to wallow in his self-pity for just a little while longer, thank you very much. 

“This feels bigger than that,” he quietly admits, picking at a wayward thread on her duvet. The duvet they had to wash after Patrick let David take him apart for the first time on it. 

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. 

“Of course it feels bigger, David. You’re in love with him.” 

He nearly scoffs, but it gets lodged in his throat. He thinks back to the open mic night and the look in Patrick’s eyes as he sang everything David was feeling, everything David was too afraid to acknowledge, back to him. 

“I was in love with him then.” He’s never said that out loud before. Not even to Patrick. 

“Yeah,” she replies. “I know you were. But you’ve admitted it now. You’ve put yourself out there. And that’s what makes it all so fucking scary.” 

He groans as he slides down to the floor next to her, leaning his back against the bed and pulling the sheet mask off his face. 

“Fuck, Stevie, what did I do?” What if he ruined this? 

She shrugs and knocks back a large gulp. “What you had to. In the moment.” 

“I regret it.” And even as he says it, he knows it’s true.

“Don’t. Patrick wouldn’t want you to regret it. He knows he needed to hear it.” She glances over at him. “And you needed to say it.” 

Now that his anger has ebbed, he’s just… tired. And embarrassed. And still stung. It’s the kind of hurt that’ll linger for a while, like a scab he can’t stop picking. 

“I think you’re so upset because it was you,” Stevie reasons, like she’s not about to drop the biggest truth bomb in her arsenal on him. “ _You_ were the one who told the Brewers. Had it been me or Alexis or your Dad, I don’t think you’d be reacting as viscerally as you are.” 

_Viscerally._ What a good word.

“When did you get so wise?” 

“It’s the wine,” she says as she pulls off her mask. “And if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.” 

He smiles and nudges her shoulder. “There she is.” 

xxxxxx

His new apartment is like a hazard zone. Everywhere he turns is some new reminder of David: boxes he helped pack labeled in his careful hand, a post-it on Patrick’s top dresser drawer indicating he’s reserving it for knits, a bottle of cocoa powder in his spice cabinet for David’s morning coffee. 

It’s long past dinnertime, but he’s not hungry. He didn’t even call the restaurant in Elmdale to cancel their reservation. Apparently that was a bridge too far. 

Instead, he changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a ball on a bed that David helped him pick out, but if he allows himself to sit and stew, he knows he’ll lose it again. He feels wrung out, physically and emotionally, not even bothering to return Jocelyn’s text wondering why the store was closed in the middle of the workday. Because if he voices the truth, if he says it out loud, he thinks the very thin thread he’s hanging by will snap, and at the moment, it’s no one’s business but his and David’s. 

And Stevie’s, probably. Because it’s always Stevie’s business. 

A knock sounds at the door and he freezes, heart lurching in his chest more abruptly than a slapped hockey puck. 

It can’t be David. 

_“Happy anniversary. The day is clearly cursed.”_

No, it wouldn’t be. 

Still, he can’t help that flare of hope from burning bright as he weaves around the unpacked boxes and grabs the door handle, wrenching it open. 

It’s not David, but it’s the next best thing.

“Mom? Dad?” he croaks, staring disbelievingly into their smiling faces. 

“Hello, sweet boy.” 

He huffs out a laugh that could be a sob, but he really doesn’t care. “Wh-what are you doing here?” 

She immediately reaches forward and gently takes his face in her hands. Her touch feels like a cool palm on a fevered head, and he whimpers as he presses into it.

She wraps her arms around him and holds him close. “We got in the car the minute you didn’t answer your phone.” 

He jolts in her embrace, gaze flicking to his father over her shoulder for confirmation. “You were in the _car_ that whole time? Why didn’t you say anything?” 

His dad smiles and reaches out, cupping the back of his head. “We didn’t want you to tell us to turn around. Forgiveness instead of permission, or however that saying goes.”

Patrick laughs and holds his dad’s wrist, shaking his head to clear it as he steps back. “But - how did you know where I lived? I didn’t - I know I showed you pictures, but I don’t think I gave you my address.” 

His parents share a sly smile as his dad drops his hand and ushers them out of the hallway. “Oh we’ve made a friend in Ray Butani.” 

_Ray._ Patrick feels such a swell of affection for that ridiculous man, he nearly falls over. However, it also could be the box he just tripped over. 

“Um, sorry for the - for the state of things. I wanted to FaceTime you when it was all set up.” In fact, he’d been thinking about it that very morning, wondering what excuses he’d have to make to ensure David wasn’t over when it happened.

“It’s a good space, bud,” his dad offers, already checking the corners for damp because sometimes, he’s such a stereotypical father, it makes Patrick’s heart clench. 

“Lots of potential,” his mom says, admiring the couch and accompanying throw pillows. 

“David picked those out,” he admits, silently congratulating himself when he says his name without collapsing. 

He watches them in his new home, still feeling a little off-kilter. His parents just drove _hours_ to be with him. They know who David is and, more importantly, what he means to Patrick. 

He would be elated if he hadn’t inadvertently sacrificed one relationship for the sake of the other. They’re supposed to work in tandem now. 

“What about… what about work? And stuff?” 

His mother spins from her inspection to pin him with a look. “Patrick, if you think for one moment that you aren’t more important than anything else that could be happening right now, then I don’t know what to tell you.” 

He stares wide-eyed at her for a moment, before glancing at his dad, who merely raises his eyebrows and shrugs, his silent way of saying _I’m with her._

“Okay,” he whispers. “Thanks.” 

His phone chimes on the coffee table, breaking the moment, and he bangs his knee on the couch in his hurry to look at the text. 

**[Stevie]**   
**Taking him back to the motel. Should you wish to grovel in person.**

He really doesn’t deserve a friend like Stevie Budd.

“Where’s David?” his mom asks, because she’s a psychic. 

“At the motel,” he replies. “Which is probably where you’ll want to stay, considering…” he gestures at the mess around him. It’s barely livable for him at the moment. 

“You could come back with us?” she suggests, but he shakes his head. 

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

His phone chimes again and he glances down, wondering if all of the women in his life are telepathic. 

**[Stevie]**   
**I highly recommend groveling in person.**

“On second thought,” he begins, “let me change.” 

xxxxxx

That sheet mask did _fuck all_ for the state of his face and he can’t tell if his headache is from all of the crying or the bottle of wine he consumed. 

The fact that Alexis is at Ted’s is the evening’s only saving grace. He’s already had to explain to his parents twice in the limited time since Stevie dropped him off that, no, he does not want to watch the John Mellencamp VH1 Behind the Music special that his mother was featured in. 

He’s immensely regretting the fact that he didn’t think to steal another bottle of wine when a knock sounds at the door. He hopes it’s Stevie coming back to rescue him from this nightmare as he stumbles over to answer it - 

But it’s not. 

“Oh,” he blurts out. 

“Please don’t slam the door,” Patrick replies, but he doesn’t put an arm or a foot in the way, wordlessly letting him do so if he wanted to.

He looks as terrible as David feels, which is… something. Maybe good. But David doesn't feel all that pleased about it. 

“What do you want?” he asks, hating himself as he does. 

Patrick swallows and a sad smile pulls at his lips. “Whatever you’re willing to give me.” He doesn’t ask to come in and he doesn’t ask David to come out.

Patrick may be the first person in David’s life to ever let him do this on his own terms. 

“I know I have no right to ask for anything,” he continues, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking forward and back on his feet. “I can’t - I can’t begin to apologize for putting you in that position.” 

But David's slightly drunk and feeling pretty petty so he spits out, “Yes, you can.” 

Patrick lips quirk again in the fond way that David loves. Like he _knows_ David is slightly drunk and feeling pretty petty and so he’s going to roll with it. 

But then the smile slides from his face and those big brown eyes lock on David’s, pinning him in place like a statement hat. 

“I’m so sorry, David,” he whispers. David sobers up immediately. 

“I’ve been someone’s dirty little secret before,” he says quietly. Not accusingly. But brutally. “I never thought I’d be yours.” 

“God, David,” he gasps, calm facade shattering as he cups David’s face in his hands. “I want to put it up in skywriting on a daily basis that this,” he chokes as he moves to hold David’s shoulders and looks him up and down, “that this incredible man somehow chose me.” 

David swallows hard and tilts his head back as tears prick at his eyes. 

“And I’ll try every day for the rest of my life to be worthy of him.” 

“Fuck,” David breathes, tears helpless to stop now as those six words rattle around his ribcage: 

_For the rest of my life._ **For the rest of my life.** **_For the rest of my life._ **

“I know I hurt you,” he continues. “I know I hurt you badly. You’ve never been a secret - I just. I wanted to tell them in person. But I couldn’t get home and I couldn’t get home. And then - then so much time had passed and - ” his voice cracks. “And I was so scared.” 

But David is already shaking his head, because this he knows. He’s been here before. 

“I meant what I said, Patrick. It’s very personal.” 

“And you’re my person,” he replies, blinking up at him. His eyes are so loud. “I should have told you.” 

David exhales shakily and sags forward, knowing that Patrick will catch him. Sure enough, his arms come around David’s waist as David’s drape over his shoulders and they just _fit._ Perfectly. Like they’re always meant to come back together, even after breaking apart. 

“Are your parents, um, are they okay?” he asks into his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Patrick laughs, stepping back and wiping a hand across his face. “Actually... actually, they’d like to meet you.”

“Okay,” he whispers. He’d like to meet the people who raised the man in front of him, too. 

“Now.” 

_Wait._ “What?” 

Patrick nods down the walk, where a pair of people stand by a car just outside of the office, trying and failing to look like they’re not paying any attention at all to what’s happening outside of room seven. 

“Those are your _parents_?” he blurts out and Patrick nods. “I can’t meet them now! I have a bottle and a half of cabernet in me! And - ” his hands gesture wildly around his face, but Patrick is still looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Come on, David.” 

He whines, but allows Patrick to thread their fingers together and give him a gentle tug towards their car. 

“Mom, Dad…” he says as they get closer, voice already wobbling, “This is David.” Patrick presents him with quiet reverence, like he’s a work of art up for auction at Sotheby’s. 

“David,” Mrs. Brewer begins, eyes already watering, hands already reaching, “it’s so very nice to finally meet you.” 

“Likewise,” he whispers, because if he speaks any louder, he’ll crack in the middle of this godforsaken parking lot. 

Then again, a lot of wonderful things have happened in this parking lot. 

“May I - ” she starts and stops. “Would it be all right if I gave you a hug?” 

_Oh._

_Yes_. He nods. That would be okay. 

She steps forward and wraps her arms around him. He hasn’t been hugged like this since Adelina, and he sinks into the embrace, folding in on himself as if he’s eight-years-old all over again. 

When he finally lets go, Mr. Brewer is standing there, waiting his turn. 

“David,” he says with a wide smile on his face - Patrick’s smile - as he reaches out a hand. His grip is warm and firm, like another handshake that changed his life not all that long ago. 

“Mr. Brewer.”

“Clint, please.”

“And I’m Marcy,” Mrs Brewer pipes up. _Marcy._

Patrick places a hand on his back and David unconsciously leans into his side. “I was kind of wondering if your dad could set them up with a room tonight. I’d ask Stevie, but…” he winces, “I think she’s done enough today.” 

David chuckles and can’t help but agree. “Of course. I’ll get him.” He feels Patrick’s fingers dig into his sweater, unwilling to let go. “Coming?” he asks him lightly, and Patrick nods eagerly, bashful grin in place at having been caught. David doesn’t want him to stray all that far either. 

“We’ll get our stuff from the car,” Marcy begins. “Maybe we can all get breakfast tomorrow?” she asks hopefully, hesitant gaze flicking between the two of them. “And then you can show us the store?” 

Patrick turns slightly to David, hand rubbing a slow circle on his back, leaving the decision entirely up to him. 

“I’d really like that,” he says. 

“Then we’ll see you in the morning, David,” she replies and it’s a promise. 

He clears his throat and surreptitiously wipes his eyes as he heads to room six. Patrick only lets go long enough to stand back as David confers with his father. He explains the situation quickly and quietly, _firmly_ ignoring the VH1 Behind the Music theme music blaring in the background and hoping against hope that his mother is too absorbed in it to listen to what’s actually going on. Quite possibly for the first time in Johnny Rose’s life, he takes the hint and doesn’t ask any follow up questions as heads out into the parking lot, giving Patrick a nod as he passes. 

David blows out a breath as he watches his dad enthusiastically greet the Brewers before leading them into the office. Two Roses is plenty to meet for the first time on any given day.

“I like them,” he murmurs when Patrick draws up to his side once more. 

“They like you,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to David’s shoulder. 

“They don’t know me.” 

Patrick’s breath is warm through his sweater as he presses another peck. “You love me. That’s the only information they needed.” 

David closes his eyes again and bows his head, chin dropping to his chest as he lets Patrick turn him in his arms. 

“Um, I know this isn’t entirely fixed, and I know we have a lot to talk about…” Patrick begins. “You probably need space and I completely respect that.” 

“Thank you,” he says, because he’s right. He thinks he does need this night to regroup. To recharge. To re-fucking-hydrate. 

“I don’t want to let you go, though,” Patrick admits with a wet laugh, breathing out unevenly as he presses his forehead into David’s collarbone. 

David kisses his head and rests his cheek on his hair. “I promise not to go far.” 

He feels Patrick nod and slowly start to disentangle himself, running his thumbs lightly under the hem at David’s sides, causing him to shiver in the relatively warm summer night. 

“Can we talk tomorrow?” Patrick asks, deliberately echoing those words from that night so very long ago. Offering him - not a do-over, but something…

_“So, in a way, it’s like we’re both starting something new.”_

He feels like a sparkler has just been set off inside him, lighting him from the inside, showing off his flaws but making him beautiful all the same. 

He steps forward and takes Patrick’s too-expressive face in his hands, seeing the agony and the apology, the lust and the love, the pains of the past and the promises of the future all laid out for him. There for the taking. 

He presses their foreheads together and just breathes. Because, for the first time in his life, he knows it’s going to be okay. 

“We can talk whenever you’d like.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to TINN for being a badass human all around.


End file.
